Grist 04 - Incinerator (22 page)

I needed to see if he’d been to Eleanor’s house, too. There was no way to be sure he knew where she lived, but I didn’t want her coming home from the hotel to any surprises. Alice purred with uncharacteristic smoothness through Santa Monica, heading south, and then carried me west, onto Windswept Court, toward the little house that Eleanor’s royalties funded. I parked Alice half a block down and did the rest of it on foot.

There were lights on in the house. A car I didn’t recognize had staked claim to the driveway, a big American gas-guzzler that reflected the boundless optimism of Detroit.

I smelled smoke briefly as I approached the house, an acrid, sharp smoke that was both familiar and unfamiliar. The hot wind blowing toward the ocean dissipated it before I could grab a second breath, but I knew Eleanor wouldn’t allow anyone who smoked inside her house.

An overgrown hibiscus crowded up against the picture window in front. The house had been built in the thirties, in an age when no one imagined that people might someday be lurking around in front of picture windows to get a look at the picture inside, and Eleanor had fed and watered that hibiscus religiously, using Billy Pinnace’s special ultra-wowie fish-emulsion mixture, to get the hibiscus to mask the window. She had succeeded beyond her wildest dreams, and I cursed Billy Pinnace and all dead fish everywhere as I pushed my way through the sharp, brittle bush to get to the glass.

The first thing I saw was a pair of feet.

They were a man’s feet, clad only in argyle socks.

The second thing I saw was Eleanor, coming into the living room with a couple of wineglasses in her hand. She was smiling.

The third thing I saw was Eleanor seeing me. She gasped and dropped a glass, and then realized who it was, and said, very plainly through the glass although I couldn’t hear the words, “Oh,
Lord.”

The fourth thing I saw, as he leapt out of his seat, was Burt. He goggled at me like a landed fish as Eleanor leaned down to pick up the unbroken wineglass from the carpet. I went to the door and used my key.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” She stood in the hall with the empty glass in her hand, and Burt poked a cautious head around the doorframe behind her.

“You’re supposed to be in the hotel,” I said, pointing an accusing finger. She looked at it, and I followed her gaze to see the blood-soaked paper towel dangling from it like the flag of a defeated army.

“You’ve hurt yourself,” Eleanor said.

“Thanks for the news.”

“Um,” Burt said, “hello, Simeon.”

“You know each other,” Eleanor said, sounding faintly embarrassed.

“I’ll admit it,” I said. “But just barely.”

Eleanor looked at the finger again. “Be nice, please. This wasn’t anybody’s idea. Do you need a bandage?”

“He was at my house tonight,” I said. “I wanted to make sure he hadn’t been here, too.”

“Were you there?” she asked, her eyes widening.

“The Incinerator?” Burt asked, a gratifying two beats behind.

“No,” I said to Eleanor. “Yes,” I said to Burt. “The Incinerator. He left me a couple of surprises, and I thought he might have done the same here.”

“He didn’t,” Eleanor said.

“So I see,” I said, wondering how far I could throw Burt.

“That means he doesn’t know where I live,” Eleanor said triumphantly. “I can come home.”

“No, you can’t,” I said. Eleanor set her jaw, and I retreated. “What I mean is, please don’t. He’s got his own agenda. There’s no way for us to know what he’ll do next. And yes,” I added, “I’d love a bandage.”

“Right back,” Eleanor said, heading for the bathroom. Burt looked at me, and I looked at Burt.

“Well, well,” he said, coloring brightly.

“Go away,” I said, moving into the living room. I stumbled on something and looked down at his shoes. They had Velcro flaps in place of laces.

“You’ve got it wrong,” I said nastily. “It’s the Japanese who want you to take your shoes off at the door. Chinese couldn’t care less.”

“This Chinese could,” Eleanor said, coming back in with an assortment of tinctures, gauzes, and tapes. “I think it’s very nice.” I looked down and saw that she was barefoot.

“Is this the little girl,” I said, “who used to sleep in a new pair of running shoes to break them in? Is this the freckle-faced little girl who once took a shower—a shower I shared, by the way,” I said to Burt, “in her nice new running shoes because she figured the water would mold them to her feet?”

“Sit down,” Eleanor commanded, blushing, “and let’s see the finger.”

“It hasn’t been amputated,” I said, obeying orders and sitting in what once had been my chair. “You’ve got more junk than Florence Nightingale had at the Battle of Crimea.”

“There’s no need to be offensive,” Burt ventured. He caught my eye. “On the other hand,” he said promptly, “you’ve been hurt.”

“He’s not really violent,” Eleanor said to Burt, unwrapping my finger. “He just talks that way.” She looked at the cut. “It’s deep,” she said.

“ ‘No, ‘tis not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door,’ ” I said,“ ‘but ‘tis enough, ‘twill serve.”

“That’s Shakespeare, Burt,” Eleanor said, swabbing at the cut with something red.

“I admire a man with a frame of reference,” Burt said gamely.

“Do you know one?” I asked.

“We were about to have some wine,” Burt said. “Would you like some?”

“Look,” I said, “I’m not going to be all Noel Coward about this. I’m going to be unpleasant.” Eleanor gave the bandage she was wrapping around my finger an unnecessary tug. “I know I’ll hate myself in the morning,” I continued, talking to Burt, “but right now, I hate
you.”

Burt was on his way to the kitchen, but he stopped and turned to face me. “Like Eleanor said, nobody wanted this to happen,” he said. “Do you think this makes me comfortable?”

“Who cares?” I asked.

“Well, then,” he said, keeping his eyes away from the injured finger. Well, I was keeping my eyes away from it, too. Only women can look at a really deep cut. “Think about Eleanor.”

“That’s enough, both of you,” Eleanor said, finishing with my finger. She gathered up the medications and stood. “Burt was just leaving,” she said.

“Now, wait a minute,” Burt said.

“And I’m leaving with him,” Eleanor said. She was looking at the bandages in her hands. “Burt,” Eleanor said, “get the wine, would you? We’ll take the rest of it with us.”

Burt said something, but he left.

“Simeon,” Eleanor said the moment he was out of the room, “are you being careful?” She looked down at the bandages again and then dumped them on the floor.

“Careful? You’re back here, in this house, and you’re asking me—”

“The police are outside,” she said.

I suppose I opened my mouth. Certainly, I felt cool air on my tongue.

“They are?” I asked stupidly.

“You must have walked right past them.”

I dismissed it. “Eleanor,” I said, “I need you.”

She looked past me, at the picture window, and said nothing.

“There’s no one I can talk to,” I said.

“You can talk to me,” Eleanor said, her face down.

“With him around?” I asked.
“Homo imitatiens?”

“He won’t be around tomorrow,” she said in a muffled voice.

“I need you tonight.”

“Well,” she said, lifting her face to me, “I’m sorry. It’s a little bit late, isn’t it? There’s a life going on here even when you’re not around, Simeon,” she said. “It wasn’t my idea that you wouldn’t be around. Lord, Simeon, how long did you think—”

“Okay,” I said, not knowing whether I wanted to cry or kill someone. “Fine. Skip it.”

“Please,” she said, “don’t—”

“I’ve recorked the wine,” Burt said from the door that led to the kitchen.

“Then we can go,” Eleanor said with her back to him, passing a hand over her face.

“Well,” I said. “Then let’s go.”

“Simeon,” Eleanor said. “Will you call me?”

“Sure. See you,” I said, heading for the front door and feeling no more substantial than my own raincoat, filled with newspapers.

Outside, the hot wind blew, and the moon shone brightly enough to evaporate water, brightly enough for me to see the unmarked police car waiting across the street. I navigated across the smooth black asphalt and looked down at Hammond.

“Al,” I said, “you could have spared me that.”

Hammond took a puff off the cigar I’d smelled before and leaned forward to twitch the ignition on. He used the power to hit the window button on the driver’s side, and the glass slid up. He still hadn’t looked at me.

“You forget,” he said just before the window sealed him off, “we ain’t buddies anymore.”

The window closed, and I lifted my arms high above my head and slammed the roof of Hammond’s car with both fists, putting a substantial dent in it, before I drove away from my ex-friend and my ex-ex-girlfriend and did what I’d been threatening to do: headed for a Holiday Inn.

After I checked in, I hauled the stack of notebooks out of Alice’s trunk and toted them upstairs. It took two trips, just as it had going down the driveway. Then, knowing I wasn’t going to be able to sleep anyway, I went out to a convenience store around the corner and bought a jar of instant coffee. It could be mixed with hot water from the tap. Or, what the hell, I could eat it with a spoon.

The notebooks opened up like rooms from the past, furnished with odds and ends—many of them
very
odd and most of them dead ends—that had once seemed important. Names, dates, places, impossibly broad concepts, niggling details, the occasional carpet of plausible language to sweep stubborn facts under. I had spent fifteen years of my life doing this, and I had gotten very good at it.

The instant coffee kept my eyes open and my heart pounding, pounding erratically but pounding, and the frequent trips to the bathroom gave me a little exercise. All in all, I was in pretty good shape at eleven the next morning when I opened the ninth book at random, somewhere toward the middle, and found myself looking down at a preliminary outline for a paper, one of literally hundreds prepared for literally dozens of classes in comparative religion.

The paper was entitled “Faces of God,” and beneath the title, signaled by an important-looking Roman numeral, was a list of the visual traditions I’d intended to ransack with the least possible effort and at the last possible moment. And under Roman numeral III was the heading “Illuminated Manuscripts,” and below that, in parentheses, was the Incinerator’s name.

14

The Empire of the Sun

“Wilton Hoxley,”
EdnaVercini said promptly. She snapped her gum and took a bite of sugared doughnut that did not, against all the laws of physics, seem to dissolve her gum, then followed the doughnut with a long and apparently satisfying hit off an unfiItered Camel. “‘Tiltin’ Wilton,’ we all called him.” She chose the nearest from among a bewildering assortment of styrofoam coffee cups and slurped, making a face. “Not me, of course,” she said.

“Of course not,” I said, wondering as I had for years whether the desk also held a set of hypodermic works. Either they were hidden in a drawer, or else heroin was the only life-threatening habit to which Edna did not subscribe. Nonetheless, she was as slender as she’d been when I’d first met her, and her forty-five-year-old complexion was flawless.

“Good old Elvis,” Edna said, consulting another of her vices, the latest edition of the
National Exposé,
which lay open on her desk. “Now there was a man who knew how to eat. He would have swallowed a tennis racquet if someone could have figured out how to deep-fry it.” She advanced into the depths of her doughnut.

“Tiltin’ Wilton,” I suggested.

“Nice enough boy.” She shifted the doughnut to one side so she could work on the gum. “I mean, a specimen to be preserved on the end of a pin if there ever was one, but that wasn’t his fault.” Edna was second assistant to UCLA’s chief librarian.

“Then whose fault was it?” I asked.

“That foot,” she said. “Poor kid had a clubfoot, didn’t he?”

“Edna,” I said, sipping from the coffee cup nearest me. It was sweet enough to gag a primrose, but the caffeine felt good as it did its dubious magic to the ganglia of my nervous centers. It was noon, and I hadn’t slept a minute.
“Did
he have a clubfoot?”

“Well, sure,” she said. She searched among the flotsam and jetsam atop her desk to find something sufficiently horrible. Finally, she chose the oldest and emptiest of the coffee cups, one rimmed with lipstick above half an inch of black fluid with powdered nondairy creamer bobbing on top of it like a ghost’s dandruff. “That’s why Tiltin’ Wilton.” Edna quaffed half of the ghastly liquid in the cup before she said, “And that’s why he changed his name.”

“To what?” I asked.

“I just said that,” Edna said.

“To what?” I asked.

“Festus,” she said. She found the doughnut, picked it up in the hand with the cigarette, and made a detour to drop the butt into the film can that served her as an ashtray. The can held a little Matterhorn of cigarette butts.

“Why Festus?” I asked.

“Are you going to buy me lunch?” Edna said, squinting suspiciously.

“I promised that I would.”

“Well, I asked him why,” she said, placated. “Who wouldn’t? It was after Hephaestus,” she said. “The blacksmith of the gods, remember? Another gimp. Lame, same like him, and his mother—that was Zeus’ wife, Hera— tossed him out of Olympus because he was deformed. Poor baby,” she said, “bet he had mother trouble, too. We never would have fired him, he was terrific at his job, except that manuscripts kept disappearing.”

“Illuminated manuscripts,” I said.

Edna took a bite off what remained of her doughnut. “Sure,” she said, “well, bits and pieces anyway. Isn’t that what we’re talking about?”

“At the moment,” I said, “we’re talking about Hephaestus. Just yesterday, or maybe it was two days ago, Blinkins was reminding me about how Prometheus stole fire from Hephaestus’ forge.”